The One in Pink
by rainbowrites
Summary: She wears pink because she knows that's what girls wear. Inspired by this: "I can't stop staring at the one in the pink dress behind him and wondering what it's like for the closeted kids at McKinley.  If maybe they look up to Klaine... as much as we do"
1. Prom Queen

Inspired by this tumblr post (http:/ sarahexplosions (dot) tumblr (dot) com/post/19755723326/i-cant-stop-staring-at-blaines-face-and-the-way) , specifically the comment "I can't stop staring at the one in the pink dress behind him and wondering what it's like for the closeted kids at McKinley. If maybe they look up to Klaine and Brittana as much as we do."

xxx

When she goes with other girls she knows (her mom calls them her friends but she doesn't) to buy a dress, she doesn't stop in the men's section. She doesn't even look at it, but zeroes in on the brightest, frilliest pink dress she can see from the entrance. You learn selective blindness at McKinley, if nothing else. She thinks that most of the time, that blindness is the only thing that keeps all the invisibles –too low to be popular, not low enough to be chum; the silent, invisible majority– safe. It also keeps them from trying to throw themselves off a building when they realize the full extent of what will happen to them if they fall.

She buys the disgusting frilly dress even though it makes her skin crawl just to look at it. She can't stop imagining how much more sophisticated a jacket would look. She can almost feel the warm security of the tie knot at her throat. It helps her breathe enough to have the energy to squeal over how cute Susan's hideous bubble-skirt dress is.

She buys flats because _gosh, you're so tall I wish I was that tall! But boys don't like having to look up, it's so silly isn't it? What does your date think? Oh, you don't have one? See, boys are just so silly, it's probably just because none of them wanted to look up. They're so stupid, aren't they? You're lucky not to have a date really, I don't even know why I said yes to Tommy, boys are just a nuisance aren't they? I'm sure a boy will want to dance with you though. You're so pretty and tall!_

She smiles and giggles with the other girls when they see Kurt Hummel buying sequins at the craft store. Lauren comments that he should just use the fairy dust he spreads everywhere he goes instead, and she laughs louder than any of the other girls. She knows Kurt Hummel must hear her, because she sees the way his back gets a little straighter and his chin goes a little higher as he walks by. She doesn't think any of the other girls notice though.

She wants to tell him, can feel the words bubbling up in her throat –

_You're so amazing_

_How do you do this everyday?_

_Help me do it too_

_I want to be you because you're so strong and I'm not_

_I never ever want to be anything like you because they're going to kill you one day_

_I'm -_

She looks away as he passes them.

xxx

The Monday morning after prom, she stares into her closet for a long time.

She only has one pair of pants, how does she only have pair of pants?

(She already knows the answer. Dresses are for girls)

Her mom bought them for her after she was caught staring at them in a catalogue. They were leather with belts and studs and they were the most beautiful thing in her closet.

She's never worn them.

She's been careful not to look in any catalogues around her mom since then.

But sometimes she takes them out and strokes the leather and thinks about what if she hadn't been born like this. In this body, in this family, in this town, in this state. It's the best part of her day. So they never get thrown out.

She takes a deep breath, and remembers the way Kurt Hummel's boyfriend had swallowed, his hand shaking, as he asked Kurt Hummel to dance. She had nearly started crying right there in the gym.

They were so fucking _brave_.

She puts on the pants.

They don't fit.

She actually starts laughing. She laughs so hard tears come to her eyes. Isn't that just _perfect? _The one time she tries to be brave and she can't. It's like the universe is telling her something. Like maybe she shouldn't try and be brave. Or maybe that she really should go through her closet and throw out everything too small since her last growth spurt.

She puts on her most flowery, girly dress. It's pink and pretty and it disgusts her. For one wild second she wonders if she would like a kilt better.

Her mom's yelling at her to get in the car, but she stands there staring at her reflection for another minute. There's a girl staring back that she sees walking down the hallway everyday at McKinley a dozen times over. She thinks of the T-shirt her brother loves so much and can't stop giggling, a little hysterically.

_You're completely unique. Just like everyone else_.

Her mom's leaning on the car horn now, but she's still frozen.

Kurt Hummel had looked like they'd just torn out his heart and spit in his face and killed his cat all at once. He'd run away too. It's okay if she does it. Even he couldn't be strong all the time.

She walks out of her room, but stops at the stairwell down to the door, where her mom is waiting to bring her back to McKinley.

Kurt Hummel had smiled so brightly when his boyfriend twirled him around. He'd _laughed_.

Before she can even think about what she's doing she darts into her brother's room and steals a pair of his doc martins. They're a little too big, but she jams her feet into them and hurtles down the stars to throw herself into the car.

She's sweating during the entire ride, her heart pounding so hard she swears it's trying to rip itself out of her chest to escape before it gets torn out by all the sneers she sees thrown at Kurt Hummel every day. By the time they arrive she's already got little half moon bruises blooming on her palm from clenching them. She can't. She can't do this.

Her mom tells her to _have a good day at school sweetie_ though, so she gets out. Her mom drives off without a backward look.

When she sits down to Algebra III, Hailey leans over and tells her that her _totally awesome boots make her look totally biker chic. It's like in Seventeen, when Miley Cyrus wore a leather jacket over her dress. Totally cute_.

She smiles and tells Hailey how she was _totally_ going for that. Kurt Hummel had worn these exact same boots last month and Hailey had sneered that the queen was trying to wear boy clothes now. She'd laughed.

She spends the entire class writing a letter to Kurt Hummel, telling him how brave she thinks he is and how he makes her want to try and be brave too. She tells him things she'd never even let herself think about herself before, because she knows he would understand. She tells him about how much she loves his clothes; how much she admires, and envies, him for still coming to school dressed like that every day even when people sneer and slushy him. She tells him about the pants that didn't fit.

She fills up 3 full pages of notebook paper, front and back, telling him how much he means to her.

When class ends Hailey asks her what she was writing, and she tells her it's a letter to her grandmother. Hailey tells her it's _totally_ lame to be writing to your grandmother, and she agrees.

She tears up the letter.

xxxx

To be clear, I have no idea what this girl is. If she's trans, or genderqueer, or a lesbian, or what. I initially wanted her to be transgender, but she ended up just kind of vaguely butch. What she is though, she can't be it at McKinley. I think that's the most important thing about her.


	2. Never Been Kissed

Thanks to sarahexplosion for looking this over and flailing with me about headcanon for this girl. Also thanks to Number1KurtHummel for reminding me that I wrote this and should post it.

xxxx

She hated having a locker near Kurt Hummel.

Every morning (and midmorning and noon and afternoon and -) she felt herself tense up, her heart hammering as though it was _her_ being locker checked. Sometimes when she heard the crashes and thumps, she thought it was her making those quick, gasping whimpers. She was terrified that one day they would be. Being in the vicinity of Kurt Hummel, even if you weren't talking to him or even _looking_ at him, was dangerous enough to make that a possibility.

But she lived for the second he passed by her, when she could stare at him and pretend she was just heading towards her locker and was actually looking _through_ him. Like everyone else was.

She had to look at him. She had to stare at him for that half a second and make sure he was still alive. That he was still him. Last year she'd spent a whole evening curled up in the shower crying because Kurt Hummel had come to school dressed in vests and baseball caps, and she didn't even understand then why it mattered so much to her. She wasn't sure what she'd do now.

God She hated having a locker by Kurt Hummel.

He made everything so much more… _real_. Bondage pants and leather jackets and ties weren't just something she could see in magazines and tell herself belonged in a different town. In a different _world_.

She could focus on cramming her books into her bags, but she couldn't _not_ hear the harsh metallic clang, the shocked gasp (why did he always sound so fucking _surprised_?). Selective blindness was possible. Selective hearing was harder.

She was pretty sure other kids didn't have that problem though. No one else ever seemed to notice.

He was wearing red plaid pants today. She _ached_ for them. She wondered if he would approve of the leather pants, hidden in a shoebox and shoved to the back of her closet. She hoped he would. She bet he would.

She looked away as soon as he got closer, hurrying towards her locker and trying to remember the combination as her fingers fumbled, slippery with sweat, over the lock.

She tensed involuntarily as she saw the red of a letterman jacket out of the corner of her eye. Kurt Hummel didn't. He wasn't even looking around; he was just focusing on that fucking phone.

She couldn't understand him sometimes. Didn't he realize what he was doing? Didn't he realize what a target he was making himself? Why didn't he just- why couldn't he just be more careful? They were going to fucking_ kill him_ one day.

She knew she was staring now. She felt her heart speeding up, and pressed her binder against her chest instinctively, as if she could slow it down by sheer force.

(the binder was decorated with colored circles, because Kayla had said that they were _totally cute_. She'd wanted the plain gray one. But colored circles were _totally cute,_ so she'd bought three.

It wasn't until she got home that she realized they were rainbow, and had spent the entire evening terrified that Kayla was going to show up the next day and start laughing at her for actually buying those faggy rainbow binders. Kayla had grinned and showed off her matching binder in Creative Writing.)

She'd never actually seen Kurt Hummel get locker-checked before. She'd never actually seen anyone get locker-checked before. People like her were always careful not to. Noticing was the first step to visibility.

It was like time slowed down. She could see the way Karofsky stared at Kurt Hummel, even though he never looked up from his phone. She couldn't stop staring at his face.

He looked like her.

Time suddenly sped up again, as if to compensate for earlier, and she didn't even see Kurt Hummel get slammed into the locker. She saw the red of his pants out of the corner of her eye, but for once, she wasn't looking at him.

She couldn't stop staring at Karofsky, who still hadn't looked away from Kurt Hummel even though he was walking away. He didn't even notice her openly gaping at him. She wanted to stop, her brain was _screaming_ at her to stop because what if he did turn around and saw her staring? Just the thought sent dribbles of sweat sliding down her spine, pooling in the middle of her back where she'd shrunk back against a pillar.

But she still couldn't stop staring after him.

A flash of red and black (and some part of her ogled his jacket as he raced past and wondered if it would accent the broadness of her own shoulders before she could squash it) and they were both gone.

In Chemistry Alice whispered over their Bunsen burner that she'd _totally seen Kurt Hummel follow Karofsky into the locker rooms. He totally wanted to see Dave changing. What a fucking pervert. Doesn't he get that Dave doesn't want that? What guy _would_, jeez._

She nodded. Kurt Hummel should get a fucking clue.

Xxx

Author's Note: This one is angrier than the other, because in The Girl in Pink she'd finally seen some small proof that you can be gay and proud in Lima and be _happy_ too, seeing Kurt happy with Blaine. In this, all she's seen in Kurt at the end of his rope, when he's the most crushed and brought down by the bullying. And it fucking terrifies her. I wanted to show both sides of how Kurt affects the closeted population. How he, personally, inspires them, compared to how seeing the way he's treated just pushes them farther back into the closet.

This is becoming a series. She won't let me go.


	3. Heart

**Leviticus **

**20:13** If a man has sexual intercourse with a male as one has sexual intercourse with a woman, the two of them have committed an abomination. They must be put to death; their blood guilt is on themselves

**18:22** You must not have sexual intercourse with a male as one has sexual intercourse with a woman; it is a detestable act.

**I Corinthians**

**6:9** Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived! The sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, passive homosexual partners, practicing homosexuals, nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God

On February 12th, at 12:16 PM, she reports Santana Lopez and Brittney S. Pierce to Principal Figgins for infringing on her religious beliefs and rights.

He looks uncomfortable and twitchy the entire time, but then again he always looks like that.

"You need to make them stop." It's weird to hear her voice sound so strong, usually she just mutters and the only time she gets loud is when she laughs too loudly at a joke that's so not funny it makes her want to cry.

"I understand that you may not feel comfortable Ms.-"

"Leviticus 20:13," she interrupts, and imagines smelting her tongue into flaming steel like the sword the Angel Gabriel used to bar the sinners, the _humans_, from Heaven, "If a man has sexual intercourse with a male as one has sexual intercourse with a woman, the two of them have committed an abomination. They must be put to death; their blood guilt is on themselves."

She repeats the words smoothly, remembering the way they always rang around the room when her father watched the news. She knows these words; they're carved into her skin and branded into her brain. She can do this.

"First Corinthians, 6:9." She takes a breath and looks past Figgins. She can see the sun slipping behind a cloud, and wonders if it'll rain tonight. She loves the sound of rain hitting her windowpane.

"Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived! The sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, passive homosexual partners, practicing homosexuals, nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God."

She finally looks at Figgins, who's shifting uncomfortably in his chair and avoiding eye contact. _Coward coward coward_.

"It is an affront and an insult to me to have to see those kinds of things in my hallway. PDA simply has no place in the sacred halls of McKinley High."

She remembers opening a broom closet and seeing some junior girl blowing Rick Stevenson. She'd told Hailey and Kayla because she was pretty sure that's what girls _did_ in situations like that. They'd just giggled and rolled their eyes and wondered in whispers about what it was like.

"This is supposed to be a place of learning, not a place for disgusting, _sinful_ sexual conduct."

She keeps her head high as she leaves the office, hands carefully folded in front of her. She wishes she had pockets to hide them in. This afternoon she'll go shopping, and buy a few skirts with pockets. She's pretty sure Hailey had said she was going shopping, before.

_I saw them making out in the hallway_ Suzanne's voice had been hushed when she said it, like she was telling them how someone had died.

They'd gasped, even though she _knew_ that every single girl there had seen them kiss at least once before. She'd seen them peck hello that morning. It had made something hot twist in her belly, bile crawling up her throat. She didn't understand why they would do that. Didn't they realize where they _were_? She'd watched them flounce off, those stupid tiny skirts fluttering, and wondered what the hell they were doing.

_Why the hell are they parading that around._

Kayla was looking at her and she realized she must have said that last part out loud. Her hands shook and she looked down at them, willing them to stop. All the other girls smiled at her a little sadly. She felt a bead of sweat roll down her neck and for one wild second was _sure_ that the other girls could see it too.

Hailey reached over and touched her hand comfortingly. _It's okay. We have a plan to stop them._

Hailey had glanced around, before leaning in and whispering, voice high and tight with excitement. _The Cheerios are going to drop Santana when she tries to get to the top of the pyramid._

She'd stared, uncomprehending, until Kayla had surreptitiously poked her in the ribs. _They wouldn't. Coach __Sylvester__ would kill them. It'd totally mess up their chances at Nationals._

_Coach can't kill all of them. Besides, Coach'll be happy about it. Remember Fabray? Coach kicked her off because she knew the judges didn't want to see some pregnant slut doing tricks. No judge wants to see some lesbo climbing on top of a bunch of girls._

Mackenzie had nodded so hard her braids look like electrocuted worms. _And what about those poor girls on the Cheerios? They have to have a lez climbing on top of them all the time. You _know _she gets off on it._

The rest of the girls had nodded sadly, eyes pinched in sympathy for the girls.

She'd nodded too, whispering softly _those girls don't deserve that_.

Kayla had squeezed her hand comfortingly, _that's why we have to help them. We'll go watch practice and say it was Lopez's fault that she fell._

_Lopez _Hailey had snorted, _more like so lez._

She'd laughed so hard she had tears in her eyes, and squeezed Kayla's hand in return. _Definitely_.

On February 12th, at 12:16 PM, she reports Santana Lopez and Brittney S. Pierce to Principal Figgins for infringing on her religious beliefs and rights.


	4. Nationals

Set during the episode "Nationals"

xXx

The day that New Directions is set to perform in Nationals she sits in her room and brushes her hair for hours.

(Everyone in the school knew; everyone in the whole town was tense with the knowledge that _maybe, _even as they pretended not to be. Winning a National competition _meant_ something. Would mean _everything_)

She doesn't think about the fact that they're in Chicago, where she thought that maybe, maybe she could –

She drags the bristles over her scalp whenever she starts to think like that. She brushes her hair and imagines the thoughts flowing down the strands and falling to the floor, withering up and dying without the protection of her skull.

She won't let herself think of maybes anymore.

(She hates Kurt Hummel for the maybes)

Then, on Monday–in the classrooms, in the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the bathroom–she hears it. A low humming of excitement, buzzing beneath the surface of the school.

National Champions–

–can't believe

how the hell did they–

–10,000 dollars!

–wonder what they'll

they won–

–they won

_They won_

She feels it thrumming through her veins, burning beneath her skin like she swallowed the sun. Every step is too slow, every breath too fast.

They _won_.

She wants to stand on top of her desk and scream it. To rip off the stupid pink jacket she's wearing and burn it, the ashes blinding those fucker's eyes, because everyone said they couldn't do it and _they won anyway_.

A sophomore girl asks Rachel Berry to sign her yearbook. Berry looks shocked, and then like she might cry, and then she just smiles magnanimously and signs.

No one sneers, or rolls their eyes, or whispers about how _Rachel Berry sure is popular in the lezbo crowd_. No one else asks Rachel Berry to sign their yearbook. But no one says anything either.

She's not sure how to deal with it, to be honest.

She'd like it if that was the end for her too.

If she went back to school the next day in the pants that didn't fit (only now, she was sure they would fit) and walked through McKinley's halls with a real smile for the first time. If she could leave with both middle fingers high in the air.

She asks Kurt Hummel to sign her yearbook instead.

It's the only time she ever talks to him. And she doesn't, really. She just looks at her (pink, delicate) shoes and holds her yearbook out on the page his dad took out.

(A whole page, dedicated to Kurt Hummel. Next to a page dedicated to Finn Hudson. Her father had told her that money was tight, that he couldn't afford frivolous purchases like that. She'd been so relieved)

She watches the way he scrawls his name and is surprised at how messy his handwriting is. She always thought he'd have beautiful, looping script. And then she's surprised at her surprise.

_Just one quick look_, she dares herself, _right before you snap it closed and walk away without looking back_.

(always walking away, away, away)

She peeks up at him from below her lashes, his face fringed by blackness like he's already fading away.

He smiles at her, bewildered and exhilarated. Like he still can't believe this is happening.

That expression, the one that _she _put there, _her, _almost breaks her.

She wants to cry, to tell him everything he means to her. How she can go home and can get through the bad days now, the days when it's _so hard._ When she wears so many frills she can feel them pressing into her skin, leaving red marks that she can't scrub off no matter how long she stays in the shower. Marks she can feel burrowing into her flesh at night, until she's afraid they might never fade. On the days that she can't tell if she's wearing a mask or if she honestly _is _this person that she hates.

On those days, now she can lie on her bed and look at the ceiling and remember Kurt Hummel's shocked smile. The way he and his boyfriend strutted down the hallway as everyone who hated them watches on in awe. The way Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez _kissed_, right next to Finn Hudson and Rachel Berry like they were just another couple in love.

(Because they _were_)

She can remember and even when it's hard (_so hard and she's so tired sometimes),_ even if she doesn't always know if she can _do _this–

She still has that moment.

She has him.

Instead she just says, "Thank you," her voice high and cracking with tears. His eyes widen at how much _feeling_ is in her voice.

He starts to reach toward her, brow furrowing, mouth opening.

She turns and bolts.

This is his moment. She doesn't need to make it hers.

This is enough.

(This is so much more than she ever thought she'd get)


	5. Pink and Black and Blue

She is twenty years old, and in her sophomore year at Lima Community College when she is kissed for the first time.

Julian is sweet. He's nice and talks a lot and never seems to notice that she just smiles and nods most of the time instead of responding. Maybe he thinks she's shy.

It's been nice. Mindless. She could just sit there and let the sound of his voice reverberate around her like a blanket. He knows better than to try and put his arm around her, and only holds her hand in public. She really appreciates that. Julian is the type of sweet boy that she never would have thought existed two years ago. All her friends tell her how lucky she is, their mouths smiling while their eyes glint like knives. But she's a graduate of McKinley, so she laughs her best stupid laugh and asks them about their _totally_ _cute _outfits until they've forgotten why they hate her.

Julian remembers her coffee order, and never pressures her to talk at length about anything. She likes the relationship. It's comfortable. Convenient. She knows that at her age, couples are supposed to be half-mad from love, positively drunk on it. Aspiring to be the next Romeo and Juliet and all that.

She's never understood that. All that happened from them loving each other was that they ended up dead. She doesn't see the point.

She's actually pretty proud of herself for not being so _childish_ in her relationship. She doesn't have any grand notions about changing Julian, she doesn't spend hours spinning elaborate futures from his smile. She's smarter than that. More mature than that.

(Sometimes she remembers the way Kurt Hummel's boyfriend looked at him – like he was the sun and the stars and everything else bright and beautiful in the world – but she's pretty sure now that it was just because they were young, and gay, and lonely. She's none of those things. She has a boyfriend and lots of people who orbit her like satellites, like hungry tigers, and a wardrobe full of pink)

She knows what other people think, what Julian thinks, and she thinks… maybe.

They're out walking, because Julian likes to walk off his meals. He doesn't try to hold her hand though, so she doesn't mind it. Walking can be nice, the repetitive slap of her shoes against the concrete a soothing percussion background to his chatter.

When he stops talking, she immediately tenses. He's looking at her, and she knows she's supposed to do something, but she doesn't know what. He says something but she's not listening, because she's just recognized that park bench and knows that she's only got a few blocks between her and McKinley. She's at the edge of the buffer zone she's drawn for herself, and it takes his hand on her shoulder to bring her back from hearing the wet slap of ice and food coloring.

"I'm going to kiss you now." He tells her. She appreciates that, she thinks, that he warns her. It means she can steel herself, can prepare herself. The first time he'd tried, she'd jerked away instinctively. He's learning. She is too. This time she locks her spine, and licks her lips like girls in movies do.

Julian has to lean down when he kisses her, because she won't go up on her toes. She's wearing ballet flats with little bows on them and is disgustingly aware that if she tried her heels would pop right out. She doesn't see the _point_ of such flimsy shoes. She aches for her brother's doc martens.

The kiss itself is fine, once she gets over her annoyance enough to remember that she's being kissed.

His lips are a little dry though. Maybe she should offer him chapstick next time. She notices his eyes are closed and hurriedly closes hers just in time, right before he breaks the kiss, a little _oh_ gusting her mouth as he does.

She smiles instinctively, a strangely hysterical feeling bubbling up in her gut like acid. She can smell citrus from the Wrigley's he'd just been chewing. Was she supposed to have chewed gum as well? Maybe next time he'll offer her some. Or is she supposed to have her own?

Isn't kissing supposed to be something magical? She's pretty sure she should be seeing fireworks, not thinking about gum. Then she feels foolish for thinking that love is anything like the movies. It was a good kiss, she's pretty sure, although obviously she doesn't have anything to compare it to. She'll have to start wearing flavored lip gloss if he wants to make a habit of it though.

The idea of adding another layer to herself settles on top of her like a weight, like the scratch of netting on a pink prom dress.

Julian strokes a gentle finger over her face and she thinks, _maybe_. Julian is nice, she reminds herself. He's sweet and doesn't expect anything from her…and it's nice to always have someone to sit next to, to be able to say "sorry, I have a boyfriend" whenever a guy tries to talk to her. It's nice to see people looking at her with new respect when she's on his arm, to not have to be afraid of what they see when they look at her because she _knows_ what they see.

She can do this.

"You're so beautiful." Julian's voice is so soft the words are more air than sound. But he might as well have screamed it, have thrust a knife into her gut and just _twisted_.

She wants to jam her perfectly manicured her fingers into his earnest blue eyes and tear straight down his cheeks until he weeps blood because he looks at her in her _pretty_ skirt and _pretty_ blouse and _pretty _shoes and he sees _beautiful_. She suddenly hates him, hates him so fucking much she could kill him and then kill herself.

She can't breathe, she can't _breathe_ under the weight of all those fucking frills, all those fucking layers of makeup oozing into her pores and coating her DNA and twisting inside her and–

She shoves Julian away and _runs_.

She hears him shouting after her, but doesn't stop. Even when she loses one (stupid, _stupid_) ballet flat she keeps on running. She has no idea where she's going.

But it has to be better than here right?

When she finally looks up from watching her feet (one bare and bloody, one in a pink ballet flat that she couldn't even recognize as hers) she nearly screams.

William fucking McKinley towers over her.

It's even bigger than she remembers.

Isn't it supposed to look smaller now, now that she's graduated? Isn't she supposed to be able to walk the halls and marvel at how small it all was? How much she had built it up in her memory?

It still looks as huge and terrifying as it had every single day of her life there.

She wonders, hiccuping, if it will always look that way.

(She wonders if Kurt Hummel would see it that way. If he even ever thought about it again after leaving Lima in his dust.)


	6. Pink and Gold and Glittering

You go to see Kurt Hummel's Broadway debut after reading about it in the McKinley newsletter.

_Kurt Hummel will perform in the original work _Fair Lord_ in which he plays Shakespeare's muse._

You google it after reading the one sentence blurb and find out that Kurt Hummel plays Shakespeare's muse and gay lover. You smile a little to yourself at the omission.

You're buying a ticket online before you even realize what you're doing.

The entire train ride to New York, you keep expecting something to happen. A break down maybe. Of the train or you, who knows. But you just keep staring ahead and listening to the strangely steady beat of your own heart as you're pulled in to New York City. It'll be the first time you'll have been outside Lima, Ohio. It'll be the first time you'll have seen Kurt Hummel since you graduated, and watched him walk away from you in his red cap and gown.

You tap out snippets of stories on your phone as you wait to see Kurt Hummel again. Of fairy princes who wore kilts that matched their wings and princesses who saved themselves from the dragons. You delete them once you're done. Sometimes you just need to write those stories out, to remind yourself you still remember them. That one day you'll tell your children them. The thought isn't as comforting as it had been, all those years ago in a dirty high school gym. You can see the lines of your life, straight and cold like train tracks to the final destination.

Sitting down in the theater, watching the lights dim, you feel strangely removed. Like _you_ are the character in a play. You wonder who the hell would pay for front row tickets to watch _your_ life. You pick at the pink lace of your dress and think that maybe you'd win a Tony for Best Costumes though.

The curtain goes up.

A single spotlight shines down.

Kurt Hummel stands there, staring serenely out into the audience.

(_at you_)

He opens his mouth.

And sings.

You start sobbing. You can't help it. You can't even hear the lyrics. But you can hear his voice, clear as day. Ringing through the theater and cutting through a thousand layers of pink and frill right into your black, shriveled heart.

You'd never heard him sing before, never gone to a single one of his performances. You wish you had. You wish desperately that you could have heard this then. Maybe you'd have been able to talk to him, really _talk_ to him, if you had.

Your whole body is shaking with the strength of your sobs and you can barely see, but you don't need to look at him to see him. You've spent your whole life looking for him, even when you didn't want to. Especially when you didn't want to.

And there he is.

You cry through the whole show, even though you hear people around you breaking into laughter more than once. You laugh too, but not because it's funny.

Because you hadn't even realized how many years worth of laughter (of happiness) had been pressed down small and tight inside of you until Kurt Hummel's voice reached out and unfurled it, sent it rushing through you, with a single note. You probably look like an insane asylum escapee, but you don't even care. It's probably the first time in your life that you don't care, and god does it feel good.

You wait for him after the show, among a huge crowd of other people clustered at the back door. You're nearly light headed at the sight of so many people, so many people talking about _Kurt Hummel_. He made it. He really, really made it.

Your hands itch to grab the nearest person and start laughing hysterically, cry into their arms because _Kurt Hummel got out. Kurt Hummel made it._

Rocking back and forth on your toes giddily, you think about how it's probably the first time in your entire life that you've ever really wanted to kiss someone, to grab them by the face and just lay one on them. You finally understands why people in movies dance down the street, singing their hearts out. You remembers that famous picture of the man on V-Day in World War II, who bent a complete stranger over and kissed her because he was so goddamn _happy_ that one body couldn't contain it all.

You've only ever had one kiss before, but right now you wouldn't mind trying again. Still hiccuping, you eye the crowd and wonder who you'd want to kiss. You've never thought about it before.

Bouncing up and down to try and get a glimpse at the door, you want to laugh at yourself. You're actually buoyant with happiness. You'd always rolled your eyes whenever you heard people say that. You roll them now, but you can't stop grinning anyway. You can't remember ever being this... this _much_ before. Maybe you never were. It's more than happiness. It's a revelation. This time you really do laugh, but it wasn't a laugh at yourself and anyway it gets swallowed up by the roar of people clamoring for _Kurt Hummel_.

_Kurt Hummel who got out._

_Kurt Hummel who made it._

It sings through your veins and beats a stamp into your brain like the mantra of the universe. You want to laugh at yourself for being stupid and over dramatic, can already feel the self-deprecating smile threaten to break out over your face, but you can't. You're _not_.

And then, suddenly, he's there. Everyone's shouting and thrusting their playbills forward and you can't even breathe for the madness of it all.

It's perfect. It's so perfect you want to fall on your knees and thank Kurt Hummel for giving you this perfect, _perfect_, moment.

He looks older than you remember, without the glare of stage lights and the layers of makeup. He's not the teenager you see when you close your eyes, his back ramrod-straight against the wall as he clutched his clothes like weapons. He's got tiny lines around his lips, and it takes you far too long to recognize them as laugh lines.

In a night full of shocks, seeing Kurt Hummel with laugh lines and the barest beginnings of crow's feet is the biggest. He looks so very human.

When did you forget that?

He picks up the playbill that you'd held out unthinkingly, just wanting to be a little closer to him. He signs it quickly and hands it back with a smile. For a second, your eyes meet. Your heart thunders in your ears and you think,

_You're my hero_  
><em>You got out<em>  
><em>You were the most amazing thing I'd ever seen<em>  
><em>How did you get out?<em>  
><em>Your voice<em>

And above it all

_thankyouthankyouthankyouthan kyouthankyouthankyouthankyou thankyouthankyou_

crashing through your mind like a tidal wave, carrying you away to somewhere new. Somewhere you hadn't even known existed.

You smile breathlessly. Does he recognize you? Can he remember the last time you asked him for his autograph? You have the funny feeling that if you compared the two signatures, they wouldn't look anything alike. The thought grips your heart like a vice, but you can't tell if it's fear or hope. You open your mouth, and absolutely nothing comes out.

He smiles at you. For that one wild second you're connected, the playbill between you a thread connecting your lives.

And then his eyes slide to the next person and you're left clasping the playbill to your chest, to your heart.

You watch him smile and sign things and thank everyone for coming. You search for his eyes, but they don't meet yours again. You didn't really think they would. You got that one moment, that one perfect moment, and that's all you really needed. You'd like more sure, but you're okay.

You're so much more than okay.

You take a huge shuddering breath; it feels like you've suddenly come up for air after being held underwater for a long time (for as long as you can remember). You can almost feel the waves breaking over you head. You take huge gulping breaths of the air as you wander down the street back towards the train station. You feel drunk, light and happy as you remember the way Kurt Hummel had smiled a little, lips quirking up just a touch, as he handed the playbill back to you.

That smile, at least, hadn't changed at all since the last time you'd seen it, as he handed back your yearbook. There was something intimately comforting about that, that you have a tiny piece of him that none of the other people in that audience had. That stupefied smile, like he was absolutely overwhelmed with happiness and shock. Like he had no idea what was happening, but there was nothing he'd rather do than find out. You can relate to that.

You fall against a wall and laugh out loud, clutching your sides and _sobbing _with laughter.

_You can relate._

A man stops to ask you if you're okay.

"I'm so okay!" You shout, taking your pretty pink purse off your shoulder. "I'm _so_ okay." You take out your keys, your phone and your wallet and shove them into your coat pocket. All that's left is your makeup and travel mirror.

Your purse is pretty and delicate and pink and you've always hated it.

("Pink's kind of childish isn't it?" You'd said. Your mother had looked at you and said, surprised, "But it's your favorite color!" and you hadn't been able to say anything so you'd just taken it. It was easier. It's always easier)

You throw it as hard as you can, your laughter ringing bright and sharp as the man swears and backs off, muttering about _crazy bitch._

You watch the purse ricochet off of a parking meter and just _laugh_.

-

You hum as you drive home, having left your car at the train station for the day. Lima is safe, or safe enough, and besides nothing had happened to it. You honestly kind of wish that some kid had at least keyed it.

You turn on the radio for the first time since getting a car, and you have to laugh because you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. Your cheeks hurt from laughing so much. Maybe you'll get laugh lines like Kurt Hummel one day.

It takes you most of the car ride to figure out how to get onto music channels and adjust the volume, fiddling with it at stop signs and red lights as you bounce in her seat. You can't sit still. You've spent your whole life sitting still and hoping no one notices you.

Finally, a voice booms out across the radio and fills the tiny car like liquid. You can almost drown in it, taste it on your tongue and breathe it out like gold.

_and I had a dream_  
><em>about my old school<em>  
><em>and she was there all pink and gold and glittering<em>

You sing along, and nearly crash the car laughing at yourself. You _suck_.

_I threw my arms around her legs_  
><em>came to weeping, came to weeping<em>

You sing anyway.

You sing as you drive back to your old house. You sing as you climb the stairs to your old room. You stop singing as you stare in the mirror at yourself. Your makeup is a little smudged, but not enough to be ugly, your hair curling softly around her ears. You look pretty. A pretty girl in her pretty pink dress.

You start to feel tired, like Kurt Hummel's voice is bleeding out of your bones and leaving nothing but marrow behind. You can see yourself again. You can see who you know you have to be. It'll be okay, you think. You had that beautiful, shining moment. You don't need anymore.

Your voice, after all, you reflect, sounds terrible. You have no business singing.

You swallow.

_It was all so strange,_  
><em>and so surreal,<em>  
><em>that a ghost should be so practical<em>

You can feel yourself settling back down (down down down), and you don't think you can survive that. Not now.

But you'll have to, won't you?

_Then I heard your voice, as clear as day_  
><em>and you told me I should concentrate<em>

You force yourself to sing as you flee down the stairs, your voice creaky as you run to the kitchen. You close your eyes, lift up your hair and then

_snick_

Your head feels so light. You can feel the back of your neck for the first time in your life. You rub your hand over the bristly hairs. Locks of hair lay in thick ropes across the floor. You stare at your reflection, and don't recognize the person staring back.

When you laugh it sounds sharp, like ice cracking apart. You sing at the top your lungs as you run back out to your car, away from your house and your dead hair laying on the tiles like a sacrifice.

You drive, with no idea where you're going, but for the first time you can remember you're _happy_.

You stop when you see a store selling leather jackets. You go in and buy jeans, a studded belt, combat boots, a too big white T-shirt. And a leather jacket. It feels like the pants that didn't fit, the smooth black leather under your fingers reminding you of all the nights you stroked the pants and let yourself imagine.

You don't answer when the cashier smiles at you and asks if your boyfriend's birthday is coming up. You hum as you pay.

_the only solution was to stand and fight,_  
><em>and my body was bruised and<em>  
><em>I was set alight<em>

You walk out without looking back.

_you came over me like some holy rite,_  
><em>and although I was burning,<em>  
><em>you're the only light<em>

You go to the Applebees next door and change in the bathroom. You still don't recognize yourself in the mirror, but you think you're starting to.

You stuff your dress and your shoes in the garbage and leave.

_the grass was so green against my new clothes,_  
><em>and I did cartwheels in your honor, dancing on tiptoes<em>  
><em>my own secret ceremonials before the service began,<em>  
><em>in the graveyard, doing handstands.<em>

You sing as you drive straight out of Lima.

_I heard your voice as clear as day_

xXx

This is the last installment of The One In Pink. Thank you all for loving her as much as I have.

I may be done telling her story, but it's far from over. Her life is really, only just beginning.


End file.
